Chapter 1255: Realms United

As I searched through the endless plane of the spell, various visions and realities formed around me. The magic touched my mind and memories, trying to drag me back into fabricated worlds that preyed on my fears. I caught glimpses of the abandoned city in Tormod’s breach, the inquisitors’ Dusk Chambers, and even the battle against the arbiter in Sylvarus, but I refused to be swept up in their narratives. No matter what they showed me, the real events were over, and there was nothing to be done but to move forward.

As I became more familiar with the spell, I sensed the beginnings of two more auras. Not trapped within the weave, but throughout it. I recognized the Pope from the many times he’d intimidated me, and the other could only be the ninth-level mage. Curiously, a name came to mind, along with memories of our only encounter.

Archmage Rithen. A powerful mind mage who served as the guardian of the archives and the World Shard’s last defender. It was he who had shown me the truth of the gods and their shards, and the political machinations that had driven Fate to her destruction. I could sense his determination and power, and also...conflict? Anger?

The feelings were entwined with the Pope’s mind. Whatever anger he held was directed at the man.

Intrigued, I pressed closer, willing myself deeper into the spell. It rejected me at first, but I had practiced manipulating realms and soon gained some semblance of control, at least enough that it no longer resisted me. That seemed to be the depth at which the other two existed, for their minds became clearer to me. Not a present conversation, but ripples of their emotions and intentions from the spell’s origin.

A faint disturbance rippled through the formation, followed by two voices. I recognized the Pope immediately, his normally measured tone sharpened by anger.

"What have you done? The hero wasn’t supposed to be drawn into the spell!"

"Why would he be excluded from it?" another voice replied calmly. Rithen, the ninth-level mind mage. "The formation seeks out the weaknesses of the souls within its reach, Your Holiness. The Sun Hero proved no exception."

"He’s our greatest champion! Release him immediately, that he should strike them down once their marks have been corrupted!"

"That would be unwise. The three have already been separated into their own realities. Disturbing one may compromise the others, and I cannot guarantee the consequences."

The Pope cursed, and I felt a surge of mana flow through the formation, brushing against the remnants of the connections I’d severed.

"And what of the demons? Have you reached their marks?"

"Not yet. Their souls are proving rather more resilient than anticipated."

A third voice interrupted, sharp and impatient.

"Then why are we wasting time with this nonsense? They’re standing right there, helpless! Why don’t we simply kill them?"

Luxara. Her voice was faint and distant, but as she spoke, I caught the slightest trace of her soul beyond the formation. It vanished almost immediately, too weak for me to follow.

"Because killing the Apostle accomplishes nothing," Rithen replied. "The Infernal Horde does not depend upon his survival. Another will inherit his authority, and we will have traded one enemy for another."

"Then kill them all! That’s what we’ve been fighting to do!" she said.

"And how do you propose we accomplish that?" Rithen asked mildly. "The Horde numbers in the millions, with more arriving from the Infernal Realms. We cannot defeat them through attrition."

"Enough," the Pope interrupted. "Rithen speaks the truth, though I’m loath to admit it. The Infernal Mark binds the demons together, connecting their souls through a hierarchy of authority. If we can penetrate the Apostle’s mark while his soul remains intact, the World Shard can carry our magic throughout that network. Every demon bound to it would be vulnerable to the same attack."

"And the Oracle?" Luxara demanded. "Surely we can kill that filthy creature, at least?"

"She carries her own infernal horde with a mark. We’ve begun probing it, but things have been...difficult. She earns her reputation as a master of the soul,’ Rithen said.

I frowned, considering his words. They knew about Luke’s Infernal Mark, but what about mine? My Primordial Mark wasn’t merely another connection within the network. The Fatesworn were bound directly to my soul. If I died, the consequences would spread throughout the entire horde. They wouldn’t need to construct such an elaborate spell to destroy them.

But they didn’t know that, did they?

The realization sent a chill down my tail. If the Pope had understood the nature of my mark, there would have been no reason to keep me alive. It was pure luck, fate, perhaps, that kept their hand.

"Then increase the pressure," the Pope snapped. "We have the World Shard at our disposal. There’s no reason to hold back!"

"Your Holiness, the Shard provides power, not control. The more you force your way into their souls, the more strain it puts on your own. I would advise patience."

"Do not lecture me! You swore to protect this world, Rithen!"

"Indeed, I did." There was a brief pause. "And I intend to honor that oath. Enusia’s survival is my concern, regardless of which side emerges victorious."

Silence followed, broken only by mana’s steady pulse.

I pursed my lips and followed the threads connecting their voices to the center of the formation. From there, I could follow the flow of mana to the separate worlds the spell had fashioned. Three separate realities, each sustained by the World Shard and woven around the soul imprisoned within.

My world lay in ruins now, gone with Aurle, and either Rithen didn’t notice, or he didn’t care. I couldn’t be certain of which, and frankly, it didn’t matter. I was like a fish in the water, now, and so long as they didn’t kill my body where it stood, there was nothing they could do to me. Their souls simply weren’t powerful enough.

Streams of mana, each thick enough to power ninth-level spells on its own, diverged from the central array and led into the darkness. I extended my senses after them, keeping my soul within the World Shard’s nexus.

The rivers ended in pools of light and dark, sunlight and curses. The light drew me in, promising warmth, but I fled to the shadows, anxious to feel Luke’s presence again.

Luke’s fears materialized around me like a vision, forming from spinning ribbons of light. Like the realm I’d been trapped in, it had no fate of its own; it was created entirely by the mind mage’s spell.

I found myself standing in the ruins of the Divine Throne. The great cathedrals had collapsed, their walls blackened and scorched, and the sun hung low overhead. Two figures struggled through the rubble, their swords clashing with a pitiful lack of power.

Luke and Soltair.

But this wasn’t the Soltair I remembered. His golden armor was whole, and the Sun God’s light enveloped him in a brilliant aura. Luke, meanwhile, was bleeding from dozens of wounds, his armor little more than torn rags. Every time he attempted to summon his curses, they fizzled out, leaving him defenseless against the Sun Hero’s attacks.

And behind Soltair, chained to a shattered pillar, was another me.

I shuddered, looking at the thin, frightened girl. One of her horns was broken, her tail limp, and a slave crest glowed brightly upon her chest. She watched the battle with hollow eyes, occasionally flinching whenever Soltair struck Luke.

"You can’t protect her," Soltair said, driving Luke back with a blow that nearly knocked the sword from his hands. "You never could. All that power, and what has it brought you? She’s still a slave, as she always was."

Luke said nothing, pressing forward despite his injuries. His expression was cold and determined, and even as another strike pierced his shoulder, he refused to yield.

I swallowed, withdrawing my senses. It hurt to see him like that, but I couldn’t do anything about fighting the false Soltair. There was another, real battle still to be fought.

I followed the second stream of mana, slipping into the world constructed around the Sun Hero.

It was darker here, a world of broken sunlight and towering shadows. The armies of the church lay defeated, and the Divine Throne had been reduced to ruins. Soltair stood alone before an enormous figure wreathed in curses, his once-brilliant armor cracked and stained with blood.

Luke, or rather, the mind mage’s understanding of him.

The Sun Hero raised his sword, attempting to summon his ninth-level magic, but the golden circles behind him flickered and vanished. He stumbled, staring at his empty hand in disbelief.

"No," he growled, trying again. "The light will not abandon me!"

The shadowy Luke advanced without hesitation, and Soltair barely managed to deflect his sword.

I frowned, studying the two worlds. They were different, but their underlying structures were remarkably similar. Both men feared losing their power, though for very different reasons. Soltair feared being unable to defeat the darkness, while Luke feared being unable to protect me from the man who’d once enslaved me.

And both were fighting enemies who existed only in their minds.

I could free Luke. With my understanding of the spell, it would hardly take any effort to unravel the world around him and return his soul to the Archives.

But then what? He would still have to face Soltair, and everything that had brought them here would remain unresolved.

I remembered holding Aurle in my arms, feeling her warmth as she faded away. I’d gotten to say goodbye, something I’d wanted for so long, but the girl I’d held wasn’t truly Aurle. My friend had died long ago, and nothing I did here could change that.

It had been comforting, but it had a hollowness, too.

Luke deserved the chance to face the real Soltair, just as Soltair deserved the opportunity to defend everything he believed in. Whatever happened between them, it wasn’t my place to decide their battle.

I took a deep breath and gathered the threads of both realities. The spell resisted at first, but I had already learned its structure, and the World Shard’s mana responded readily to my direction.

Rather than unraveling the two worlds, I brought them together, carefully separating the false opponents from the souls they tormented. The towering shadows and radiant sunlight faded, leaving the broken courtyard of the Divine Throne. Broken weapons, craters, and corpses were scattered everywhere, and blood ran in the grout between stones.

Luke and Soltair had lost their overwhelming opponent, but they were trapped in the shadows of their fears. Those weren’t things I could lift from their shoulders, nor did I want to. Let them fight with what skill, strength, and resolve they had left, be they first level or ninth. No, perhaps it was better this way. Once all their power was gone, once their abilities were stripped away, they would be as I was. A mortal in a gods’ world. Let them see what they were really made of.